you are all i know
by renee walker
Summary: Cashmere and Gloss were as beautiful as they were arrogant, and as deadly as they were corrupt. It was easy to get caught up in the lifestyle Panem depicted and forget what Snow forced upon them.


Cashmere and Gloss were as beautiful as they were arrogant, and as deadly as they were corrupt. Their skin was painted with glitter daily, all the way up to the line of their sharp collarbones. Gold and silver twined up their necks to rest just underneath their perfect jawlines like the ropes of a noose.

They were glamor and wealth, precious and desirable. It was easy to get caught up in the lifestyle Panem depicted and forget what Snow forced upon them.

They were classic Victors. They were classically gorgeous people. They were murderers and unwilling prostitutes and siblings that loved each other beyond everything.

It was raining in the 63rd Hunger Games. It was raining so heavily for twenty-three hours a day that it soaked tributes to the bone, scared away all prey, and wilted plants. The twenty-fourth hour was dry, in the dead of night, and that was when tributes were forced to venture out or starve. It was dubbed the Killing Hour of the 63rd Games.

Gloss was a hunter, jaw set, scavenging for food and killing anyone in his path. Blood soaked into the wet soil, making his hands and shoes slippery. He couldn't afford to not go home; he couldn't afford to _lose._ He had a family, he had Cashmere, he had to survive. It was pure human instinct that drove him-to find food, to fight, to _live_.

Gloss came back to District One with hollow eyes and cheekbones, hands curled into fists, and a wide smile that looked strange to Cashmere, who didn't understand why he kept _disappearing_ and going back to the Capitol. She did know, however, that she was determined to live up to his legacy, to be as good or even better than him. She wanted to prove herself. She had to prove herself.

Cashmere's sharpest memory of the Reaping Day of the 64th Hunger Games was Gloss's face on the train when she was alone in her room with him. Suddenly, he felt closer to her than he'd been all year-more _real_. She felt his tiredness and the strain on his face in her own bones. She saw how his smile had disappeared.

"I'm going to win," she had said with certainty.

He'd clenched his jaw and said, "You better. You have to. I can't believe you Volunteered."

"I wanted to win. I'm going to win. I'm _just_ as good as you and even more capable of winning, _excuse_ you."

"That's not what I meant," Gloss said, all composure and sincerity. "I just-you're my sister."

She felt his protection and at the time, she thought she'd understood it. Now, she knew she had only understood a fraction of his worry.

Cashmere's own Games consisted of a ruined Capitol city. Something gorgeous and corrupted-tall glass buildings with broken windows, battered houses painted in rainbow colours, and twisted structures of shiny metal that had once been something fascinatingly eccentric. It was like a dangerous playground and Cashmere was the ringleader. She was _ruthless_ and the Games were more horrifying, more scarring than she'd thought.

In the safety of the Capitol, Gloss alternated between pleasuring clients, feeling like he was a marionette or actor, and watching the Hunger Games.

After all, Cashmere was his tribute. God, she was his _sister_.

All Gloss could think was _please be alive_ when he walked into the viewing room to watch and then, _please stay alive_ when he saw she was and _fuck you, Snow, you fucking absolute bastard_ whenever he was out with a client, in the limo for an event, watching the Games. Snow hung over him like a ghost, like the people he'd killed in his Hunger Games, like the feel of a body that didn't even seem like his own anymore.

Cashmere won and was bleeding heavily and barely conscious when she arrived back. She was taken to get patched up and the moment she woke, Gloss came striding in.

She reached over, held his hand, said, "I understand. I love you."

And he thought, _no, you don't understand, I'll make sure that you will never understand_ , and said, "I love you too. I'm proud of you." _For living, for surviving_. That was the same thing Cashmere had said to Gloss a week after he came home to District One, sprawled on his ridiculously huge bed in Victor's Village.

Then Snow offered Cashmere the ultaminum of prostitution or prostituting her _brother_ (who, Snow mentioned, a weird, cold smile on his weird, cold face and rose on his lapel overpoweringly fragrant, had several offers from people very into _painfully_ pleasurable experiences). And she wasn't stupid; she knew about Gloss's prostitution. But she didn't want to make it worse-she couldn't. She chose her own prostitution and she knew in her core, more than she'd known anything in her _life_ , that she would do anything to protect Gloss, to keep him alive and well.

They both thought they were protecting the other until they were both 'entertaining' at Sugar, the trendiest club of the moment, and realized they'd been fucked over. Gloss breathed deeply and Cashmere blinked rapidly, her dark fan of lashes a blur as they processed this.

"Fuck," Gloss said. "You weren't supposed to be touched. Or hurt."

"I was trying to protect _you_ ," Cashmere ground out. She tossed her hair and crossed her arms. She was shameless, now, even standing in front of her older brother in only a short, low-cut silk slip and and strappy, knee-high heels. "Christ. Snow mentioned you had clients who were into pain-play and BDSM. Things that you couldn't consent to. He was supposed to comb through your offers and make sure you didn't get any."

Gloss stayed silent for once and Cashmere said frigidly, "Snow didn't?"

"He did," Gloss said. He touched her face with the back of his broad knuckles gently, tucking her hair behind her ear with rough fingers like he did when they were five and six. "I haven't had a client like that." _Recently_ was what he didn't say but Cashmere knew him too well, knew him in her blood, under her hands and in her heart.

She had no answer-not one that wouldn't get her killed-and reached out to twine their fingers together. "I love you."

"I love you too," Gloss said, and they were terrible people, there was no doubt, but they would do anything for each other and this was one of the many things they shared.

Sometimes, they would lie in bed together, silk sheets pooling around their trim waists, breath mingling on the pillows. Sometimes, they would train together for long hours-kickboxing, sword-fighting, wrestling, archery. Sometimes, they would kiss, a press of warm lips that tasted like _right,_ _hope_ , _love_ and _I would go through the Games again for you._

Though they were friends with the District One and Two Victors and intelligent stylists, and acquaintances with Victors like Finnick Odair, they were mostly shunned by the rest of the Victors for being 'snobby' or 'pretentious' or 'Capitol supporting.' There were few Victors, few people in general, who realized that after everything they'd been through and they were going through, Cashmere and Gloss hated the Capitol, hated this dictatorship and Snow, with an aching passion.

They weren't power-thirsty; they weren't high on blood and lust. They wanted acceptance and love. They wanted was relaxation in place of tightly-wound control every time someone touched them, and to be reprieved of their sins.

Then came Katniss Everdeen and the rebellious act in the 74th Hunger Games.

"She's going to get herself killed," Cashmere hissed, narrowing her eyes at the screen. She was in one of Gloss's soft button-downs, the blue one he'd bought for himself, and running shorts, long legs stretched out on her bed.

Gloss lifted a brow slightly, cold disapproval scrawled over his face. "They both are. They've survived this long though. Abernathy must have stepped up."

"For her? Probably. Not for the guy, Mellark." She refused to call them by their first names, refused to acknowledge them. Finally, now, ten years later, business was evening out and then this had to happen. Clients would be crazy for Victors after this. The Twelves would be off-limits with this romance, so the clients would want to pick up _any_ other Victor for the novelty. "He was virtually useless the entire Games. Like those Six Victors."

"They did become Victors," Gloss reminded her, but he didn't disagree. It was one thing to _win_ , it was another to _know how to win_. Outsmarting the competition drew a line somewhere-it was about how you played the crowd, how you played the tributes, how you played the Games. Hiding out wasn't entirely effective and they'd both witnessed the aftereffects of basically burying yourself alive.

There was a pause and then, "If we had been in the same arena…" _We would have fought together. We would have died together._

"Don't," Gloss said. His voice and eyes were hard, but the lines of his face betrayed his pain. He couldn't think about that though he knew he wouldn't have killed her.

Cashmere pursed her lips and reached over, twining their fingers, pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles. His knuckles were a place where blood had stained, where the mandatory healing after the Games left the skin smooth, where it was now split and scarred and had to be covered with makeup whenever he went out.

"I love you," she said and he uncurled his hand, an open palm pressing against her cheek.

"I love you too," said Gloss and sank down beside her. He wrapped her in a hug and they both held on.

They got Reaped the next Hunger Games, the both of them, and no one Volunteered to take their place. That was fair. They wouldn't have done it for them either-not unless the other sibling was going in.

They smiled and waved as if it was such a _huge_ honour. They bit back words that would've made the utterly foolish Johanna Mason proud. They hung on to each other, hands twined, knuckles white, until they reach the Capitol.

"There's a rebellion going on," Gloss murmured against the shell of Cashmere's ear. They were at a huge party that was all chrome, glass, and plastic people in expensive clothes. He leaned over her to retrieve the bottle of wine the bartender at the open bar brought for him to deliver back to his 'date' of the night. After all, business was still business. He lingered just a touch longer than normal, not enough to be suspicious about, to talk to his sister.

"They won't trust us," Cashmere whispered back, lips barely moving as she pressed the rim of her crystal glass to her mouth, taking a delicate swallow of fine red wine.

Gloss didn't respond, just grabbed the bottle, kissed her perfectuarly on the cheek and backed away. However, the look in his eyes told her that he understood. He'd always understood, she knew. Understood how to play the Games, understood how to survive, understood trauma and possession and being used and how to keep living.

" _We made it out because we wanted to. Our wins were made up of strokes of luck and of us doing everything we could to get out of there. Don't waste that chance to be alive because twenty-three other tributes went in and didn't come out. They don't get a chance to live anymore. Live for them. Live for yourself."_

 _Cashmere nodded and tossed her head, blonde locks flaring. She was shameless, she was beautiful, and she was redefining herself a year after her win._

One thing Gloss had always understood, Cashmere had realized after Snow began prostituting her, was that, in the end, there were few people you could truly trust and rely on, and few people who would trust and rely on you.

"Enobaria and Brutus will," Gloss said and that was true. They'd been friends for a long, long time.

"Odair won't," Cashmere said, crossing her legs, flexing her fingers. It was four in the morning and they'd returned to their penthouse, clients left in their extravagant homes. "Mags won't." Mags was always nice, but she wasn't close enough to them. Neither Gloss or Cashmere wanted her slowing them down anyway. Their first priority was each other.

Gloss was standing straight in the doorway to the bathroom, face in shadows. "Talon and Circe from Ten."

"Gwenith," Cashmere countered, noting Nine's famous sickle-wielding tribute. Gwenith had won her Games with surprising success, using the provided sickle with ease.

"Brites." District Five. Worked in factories before he went into the arena where the theme was 'Past and Future.' The technology had been too advanced for all the tributes, save for Brites, and the past side was archaic, but more familiar than the machinery. He'd gone in and managed to build some sort of explosive that wiped out the entire "past" side of the arena. Even Snow had been impressed.

"Deena." Also Five. Flexible, clever, wiry. Incredible pain tolerance and reflexes.

"She's good but she's not strong enough. Not for this." Gloss spoke grandly, as always, with a sweep of his arm, lines around his eyes, and Cashmere breathed out a sigh through her nose, rolling her eyes.

"Different skill set. Acrobatics." They stared off at each other, tension running through their bodies. They fought as much as normal siblings did, but their fights usually ended either in hand-to-hand combat or bed.

"We'll see. Tomorrow," Gloss finally said, certainty colouring his tone. He moved closer and ran his fingers through Cashmere's hair. She was as stressed as he was-she needed to relax. They both did. "Love you," he added. It was an instinct, by now. His mouth shaped the words almost of their own accord, though with no less feeling.

The set of Cashmere's shoulders loosened just a fraction. "Love you too, brother."

The next day, they showed off their knife skills, talked to Two, Four, Five, Nine and Ten, and told Queen and Marble, their mentors, that they wanted the Twelves. They weren't in the rebellion, but they weren't about to give anything away by saying they didn't want the hottest Victors of the year.

"Your alliance with Two and Ten has been made," Queen said, collapsing elegantly on a velvet loveseat. She was all easy grace and long lines. She was known for her signature platinum blonde hair, cut sharply at her chin, porcelain skin, and sharp hazel-blue eyes. She was married to a District Four Victor, Kai Utsumi, had three miscarriages in the past two years and was still going strong. "How do you feel about Nine?"

"We want Gwenith," Cashmere said, taking a delicate bite of plum. Gloss picked up a plain apple slice.

"Not Rye," Marble said, and it wasn't a question. Marble was shorter than all of them at 5'7". Gloss was 6'1", Queen drew tall at an even six feet and 6'3" in heels, and Cashmere was 5'10". Marble was a dancer before he Volunteered, a dancer and gymnast. He was incredibly flexible, perceptive and strong, and had the most beautiful, deadly combat style either sibling had ever seen.

Gloss shook his head minutely. "He's not fast or brutal enough." He bit into his apple slice and Marble and Queen exchanged looks.

"We'll see," Queen vaguely answered. Her fingers twirled her coffee stirrer, flipping it over her knuckles, under her palms, weaving between her fingers. Her main weapons were bow and arrows and she was renowned for being able to fight by shooting the arrow or using it or the bow as a close-contact weapon. "Anyone else?"

Marble and Queen were their friends, but neither Gloss or Cashmere could stop assessing, one of the many ticks left from the Games. There was little doubt that the two other One Victors were sizing them up everyday too. They trusted each other, but this was instinct that patterned their sides, the need for survival covering their eyes, and they couldn't break free. They didn't really want to.

"We'd like Five," Gloss said. "They're clever. You never know what the Games will bring but there's always some sort of technology. Even if there isn't, they're skilled with spears."

"Good choice," Marble noted and took a sip of raspberry water. "Also, Essie will be here soon to outfit you. You've got clients."

Cashmere's head snapped up and her eyes widened, then narrowed. "We were going to slip in some extra training," she said breezily, wary of the bugged room.

Queen's mouth hitched into a soft half-smile. It was against the rules to train more, but the Career Districts always found a way. "Well, I'm sure you can train later."

"It's fine," Gloss assured her coolly and, later, they came home at different times, smelling of too-fragrant cologne and perfume.

They had "turned off" their personalities for sex and it took a minute to relax around each other. For clients, they let themselves drift, making the meetings a sort of mechanical protocol, and letting the exchange become instinct. It wasn't too different from the way they turned into killers in the Hunger Games.

"Sometimes," Cashmere whispered hotly into the hollow of Gloss's neck, where her secrets gathered, "I wish sex wasn't like this. I wish it would mean something."

"You mean something," Gloss murmured, words curving behind her ear, sliding into her hair. He tucked stray strands behind her other ear. "That counts for something. Sometimes I wish it did too but you mean more to me than sex ever would." And it wasn't that Cashmere couldn't make inspiring speeches-it was that she was so young. An entire year younger than Gloss and she had gone through so much, still.

"I don't like any of them," she confessed. "I don't feel any attraction. I don't think I could." She didn't say _I only feel something for you_ and she didn't have to. She was his sister and he knew her.

"Me too," Gloss said, holding her close. She was his lifeline, his Achilles Heel, and he hated this world for trying to take her away. "I love you." He didn't repeat the three words, though he wanted to. He'd learned not to. He'd learned to be the charming, strong Victor that ranked just behind Finnick Odair. In front of Cashmere, he tried to be just Gloss. Her brother, the boy from One, was actually someone cool and disdainful with wry remarks.

"I love you too." Cashmere sighed and pulled away, shedding the little reflective blue bandage dress and mirrored sky-high heels. Gloss followed suit, shucking off his silver shirt and tight black pants. Cashmere leaned forward, almost smirking, to touch one of the glittering diamond fake-tattoo patterns that curled around his neck.

"Training in three hours," Gloss said, checking the clock as he came out of the shower. Cashmere, already showered, was sitting in one of Gloss's soft sweaters and his sweatpants. Gloss just grabbed pajama pants.

"We won't get out of the Games alive," Cashmere said, looking off into the distance. She was beautiful, even like this. Not in the glittery, bright way of last year's One tribute, or in the svelte, graceful way of Queen, but in her own way. She was all sharp angles and narrow eyes, everything about her smooth and strong. There was beauty in the curl of her butter-blonde hair and full lips and fan of lashes, the light tan of her skin, how she was always too skinny, woven out of fine bone and muscle and sinew.

Gloss shook his head. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. They both knew that, though they would die for each other, they wouldn't leave the other behind. They'd die together in the arena. That was it. They'd fight together with their friends, a final stand, and then die. There was a rebellion going on and they wouldn't live to see the outcome of the change.

It wasn't okay. But it sort of was.

The night before they got sent into the arena, they lay in bed together one last time. All they could feel were silk sheets, and soft hair, smooth skin, and taunt muscles. The night was full of shadows being cast over their faces, gathering in their eyes, slipping past their fingers.

"I love you," they told each other. Once upon a time, they were the twins Apollo and Artemis, ruling their kingdoms, living in harmony, willing to defend each other. Then the gods faded and they were left with themselves, with Gloss and Cashmere. They were siblings and they were going to die soon.

Gloss died by Everdeen's arrow and Cashmere charged forward with a cry. Fuck. Her _brother_. _Gloss_. He was already gone and she was next, so she made it easy. She moved forward with abandon to let Johanna Mason's axe sink into her chest. Then she fell, blood exploding across her chest like a burst of scattering rubies, and vision going black.

For the first time in years, Cashmere felt free.

* * *

disclaimer: i don't own _the hunger games_ trilogy, rights to suzanne collins.


End file.
